


[fic] your life will not flash before your eyes

by youcallitwinter



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-15 12:53:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcallitwinter/pseuds/youcallitwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season one summer. Veronica does normal. Logan does self-fulfilling prophecy.</p><p>[post season one] [logan; veronica/logan, duncan] [oneshot]</p>
            </blockquote>





	[fic] your life will not flash before your eyes

**Author's Note:**

> I sometimes wish I'd been in fandom at the time to explore the 'what ifs' instead of knowing how it actually turned out, because I'd have loved to have Logan run to Mexico or something, and have Veronica search up on and follow him etc. But that was ten years ago, and I'm pretty sure I could barely string words together properly. 
> 
> _Awkward_. If you don't want to read, but want to know what the fic's about, that's the entire thing in one word.

When he's dating Veronica Mars, a guy has a lot of free time on his hands.

He’s not exactly sure of the why of it. He has the basic gist; it’s the private investigator thing, mostly, but he doesn't know what it actually involves. It sounds sexy, and he has a lot of masturbatory fantasies attached to it, but all he really knows is that she’s good at finding out stuff. Even when there’s nothing to be found, even when his mom is actually at the bottom of the ocean.  _Free at last_ , he should call Hallmark up, and try and negotiate a deal on a chain of funeral cards. Tragically uplifting, just right for business.

He tries to listen the first few times when she tries to explain her job, or hobby, or whatever it is, like a good girlfriend, like he has the right to know, a right on her time, and she’s letting him claim that right. That he can ask her where she is, and she’ll  _tell_ him, because he has a  _right_. Over her. It’s bizarre, the idea. It's also patently untrue. Veronica Mars belongs to no one.

Basically, what he gets from the whole deal is that it’s not that sexy, and when you can see the strings, it's just plain boring. He doesn’t want to know about her hours spent sitting behind rolled down windows in her cereal-box car, with a wide lens, and a hot thermos, even in summer, when he can just imagine leather, and Veronica holding a gun. Sometimes both at the same time.

But the real thing— it’s apparently just a lot of different names and the same petty crime; cheating husbands, lying wives, and the light at the end of the tunnel, a drama-free signature on the divorce papers. Yet another addition for the statistics department to include in their grand annual report on broken homes in America or whatever. He zones out, frequently, his gaze fixed on her constantly moving lips instead.

She stops midway, and laughs. He can tell by her face it's sharper than she intends, "you're not really listening, are you?"

He thinks of lying for a second, he can make this right right now, "nope," he obnoxiously pops the 'p', because lying would be moronic. He's not listening.

She shakes her head, "I don't know why I bother." The tone is playful, but he can make out the effort behind it. She doesn't try to explain again afterwards. He doesn't know why she does either. Bother. He doesn't say that.

 

 

 

**.**

 

 

 

"You have summer school, remember?" she reminds him, gives him a reason he can understand for why they can't be together all the time. Which is true. He has summer school. When he’s not doing murder accused, he does summer school. All in a day’s work.

She comes over afterwards, even though it’s too hot to be out in the afternoons, drives him home. "Only because I love you," he says, mocking, tapping her nose, as he gets into her car and bends low so no one can see him, and she tells him he's an asshole. Or she sits in the passenger seat of his car, and lets him choose the music, even though she hates it.

There are times he pulls her into the backseat before she's even managed to shut the door, and she protests, but she's smiling, and she doesn't mean it, and fuck, he loves making her lose that smile, her eyes going a deeper blue with his hands all over her. They get interrupted, once or twice, Dick has the worst timing, and Lucky always needs something, but she doesn't get off his lap, even then, and that, in it's own way, has to mean something.

She’ll leave when they get there, his grand, deserted mansion, she always has stuff to do, but she gives him that much. Like he deserves it. Deserves her. Every now and then, she tentatively puts her hand on his on the steering wheel, testing the waters, as if  _he’ll_ push her away.  As if when they're not touching, they're living an alternate timeline of missed glances and an uncomfortable, loaded godlessness.

He feels like a heretic, because there's no way he can be with her and maintain any kind of a belief-system, like maybe the kind where his girlfriend should probably not think him capable of murder in the first degree, or if she does, she should be running, at least. She’s sorry she accused him, he knows; she doesn’t think she was _wrong_ ¸ but she’s sorry, anyway, so maybe that’s supposed to substitute.

He plays video games for hours, ignoring all his homework assignments. She calls in the evening sometimes, asks him if he’s done them and  _Logan, you know Mr. Cole said you need a B+ to pass the class_. She knows what he has, because she always questions him on it on the long ride home; avoiding the landmines—  _hey, remember that time my dad locked you up in a trunk and almost burnt you alive?_  Or  _hey, remember that time you thought I raped you, and murdered my ex-girlfriend, funny story, right?_  — leaves little space for conversation, but she’s determined to talk through it anyway, to make it okay.

She sounds like she cares. Like she actually wants him to do his homework, or something. Like she’s  _rooting_ for him to do his homework.

“I'll just get on that,  _mom_ ,” he drawls out, and she makes a sound half-way between a forced, choking laugh, and a half-baked sound of sympathy, because she doesn’t know how to react to references to his dead, suicidal mother, who jumped off a cliff he was too chicken to jump off himself.

She changes the subject quickly, obviously, tells him teasingly he should be really doing his work, because there’s no way she’s going to date a _junior_ , she has a reputation to keep. He teases her back, tells her there’s nothing he could possibly do to ruin  _her_ reputation, that his has taken much more of a nosedive because he’s dating her, rather than the whole murder thing which, let’s face it, is a Neptune staple.

She’s silent for a while after that, and he can tell she doesn’t know if he’s serious or not, so he laughs to let her know he’s not, which is so fucking stupid, because she’s beautiful and brave and she does the right thing and she believes the right thing is out there to do and he can’t see why every guy he knows isn’t in love with her because, fuck. But she needs emotional cues more often than not, and he’s becoming used to it.

He still brings up his dear departed mother several times, even though it makes her uncomfortable, because it makes her uncomfortable, because he’s a bastard like that. And when she disconnects on the other end after awkward silences and even more awkward laughter, he falls back on the couch, controller on his stomach, and wonders what she's doing.

 

 

 

**.**

 

 

 

Sometimes, it's her dad. She visits him in the hospital every day, and some days she comes back to him. She doesn't knock anymore, as she used to, standing politely outside his door, hands primly by her side, till he opened it. He calls it progress in his head.

She's quiet those days, and he's louder by default, like everything he does is amplified. Because if he doesn't fill the silence, then at some point she's going to make that connection of how it was his asshole father that put hers in the hospital, and that he's pretty much the last person to be able to offer anything except shared genes of a psycho killer, and cold, hollow comfort.

But obviously he's underestimated the power of her denial. The one time he tries to bring it up himself, because- well, there are a lot of theories he's heard for why he does the things he does, but every professional gives the condition a different name, and he would so hate to indulge in favoritism- she shuts him down before he’s even managed to get the words out.

"We don't have to talk about it," she's blinking fast, but she's not crying. He doesn't think he's ever seen her cry. She almost did the night he almost jumped. There were a lot of almosts that night. He can still feel the wind on his face, the sound of water, if he closes his eyes hard enough. But it's louder, closer, as if he's rushing past it, as if he actually jumped.

And just because she doesn't, he wants to talk about it, even though he’s been terrified of it till this moment, "I think we should. Vanity Fair would pay a lot for an exclusive, but I'm calling boyfriend privileges."

"Speaking of," she's not very good at it- this- because she's transparent, or maybe it's just that he's known her too long; it annoys him that he can tell, annoys him that she can't tell that he can, "boyfriend privileges."

She unbuttons her shirt, slow, kneeling on the couch above him, hand lingering on each button, "wanna get to second base?"

For a moment he can tell they're both afraid he's going to say something monumentally stupid like  _I want to talk_ , but then he reaches out and pulls her shirt off her shoulders instead. He's not sure, but he thinks they start breathing again around the same moment.

She asks him once, eyes downcast, if he'd like to come with her to the hospital. Like he has a right in this too, in being involved in her personal, family life. In knowing all sides of her there are to know.

He thinks of the last time he saw Keith. At the beach, telling him to get away from his daughter, like he would hurt her, and hates him a little. And hates her more than a little for thinking he could have killed Lilly, raped her. He doesn't know if she still thinks he could have done it. He knows that she knows he  _didn't_ , but he doesn't know if she still thinks he could have.

"I don't think that's such a good idea."

She nods briefly, as if she gets it, and as long as she doesn't look up, he won't have to see the relief in her eyes. When she looks up, he'll look away.

She turns around before she's out the door, and waves, once. gives him a soft, melting smile, and he thinks he hates her so much, it just turns to love.

 

 

 

**.**

 

 

 

She leaves the private investigator thing about a month into the summer. Tells him she's only been doing the paperwork the past month anyway, boring old file-pushing, no stake-outs, no dangerous missions, no bruises on the left side of her cheek. Just a few phone-calls when she can. He wants to ask her why she doesn't come over more often then, but he doesn't.

"Why?" he asks about the PI thing, lightly tracing the burn mark on the sliver of skin in the space between her hoodie and her jeans. It doesn't hurt anymore; he knows because she’s told him, but it still makes her flinch every time he touches it. Her hand comes up to cover his, dragging it higher above inside her hoodie, away from the burnt skin.

She shrugs, "normal is the summer watchword, amigo. And sitting outside the Camelot at two in the morning with the trusty Nikon, shooting illegal soft porn, just ain't making the cut."

She sits with him on the couch instead, on his lap, his hand over hers on the controller, guiding her movements. She laughs when she manages to shoot something. The fourth time she comes over, she picks up her own controller. He lets her win. She knows he does, but she's delighted anyway.

"I'm getting good," she informs him, solemnly.

She cooks him dinner some evenings, standing over whatever she's making, while he adds in things she tells him to, and gets it wrong most of the time.

"Lilly used to do this too." he says, absently, remembering her standing just like this. Except she hadn't really known how to cook, not his Lilly, she just did it because she thought the maid's outfit was sexy, concentrating way more on the sashaying and bending over than she ever did on the food. He thought it was sexy too. They ended up making out against the sink mostly. Had sex right there if his parents were out.

Her hand stills for a second, before resuming the stirring, "really?"

"Yeah," he half-smiles, lost in the memories, "in that ridiculous maid costume she ordered from some godforsaken online shopping thing."

Veronica remembers it, he can tell, "I don't have anything like that." she smiles tightly.

"What," he's startled, "it has nothing... that's not what I meant."

She turns to him, her skin is damp with the steam, he wants to brush back the strands of hair sticking to her forehead, "I can't be Lilly for you, Logan."

"I wasn't asking for you to be," he says, "I wouldn't want for you to be." Veronica is not Lilly, he knows this with absolute certainty.

"I can't." she says, again, and he wishes she would qualify that, but she goes back to the sauce instead. She doesn't leave, as she would have once upon a time, on something like this. She's lonely without her dad at home. It took him a while to realize why she comes over even as much as she does, but he knows now. He's practiced enough in her to be able to tell.

She asks him to taste, holding out the long spoon, and it makes her lips quirk, when he exaggerates his pleasure at the taste, and he thinks his watchword for the summer might be "Veronica", which is forty different shades of lame.

 

 

 

**.**

 

 

 

Veronica does normal like she does everything else; with single-minded tenacity.

It's the same way she follows up on a case, or question six in their math textbook, or Lilly's murder. She does it with checklists and a waitressing job, and close-mouthed kiss every time she gets a break in between. Like she can bring back normal by sheer force of will.

He's The Boyfriend, obviously, in the checklist. He has an entry and exist, and he gets to touch her, and she smiles up at the things he says, and god, he's willing to live with that forever, because it's more than he ever thought he'd get, definitely more than he deserves. It feels like he's- not normal, clearly- but... playing at normal. Where every moment is an effort because he doesn't have a script and he doesn't know what the fuck he's supposed to be saying to please the audience.

He doesn't know if he can drink too much, because he now knows the dead love of his life fucked his abusive father, kissed the cigarette burns on his back with tears of rage in her eyes, and then apparently channeled it into her sex drive. Or he can't, because his new girlfriend comes to him after work sometimes, and kisses him like she doesn't want to stop, like she wants to, like it means something.

She's better than him at it, completely immersed in the role, a performance that occasionally makes him want to break into his father's trophy case, take the Oscar from the top shelf, and just give it to her, because she deserves it so much more than he ever did. So in-character that she doesn't break it for a second; there is no honesty to be had tangled up with her, under a worn blanket, on an old couch, in her home, even alone. They kiss where they can talk, and they don't stop kissing.

He wants to shake her out of it, shake her hard till her teeth rattle and she hits back, does  _something_ , and he at least has a bruise on his cheek to match hers, a sort of trajectory marker that she was there this summer. Because yes, her boyfriend is here, stealing kisses between her breaks. But he's here after.  _After_  leaving a courtroom of a trial he's a murder suspect in. That's not _normal_ , Veronica.

But he won't get through, and he won't try, because she'll leave him faster than she'll leave normal. The Boyfriend has a starring role in her fantasy existence and if he doesn't live up, she'll easily replace him, because he's not even the best candidate out there, he never was. He's a fluke, the understudy while the hero is out of commission, and all he can do is hope to not mess his lines badly enough to make her realize it. 

Sometimes, he can't stand her, for keeping up the same  _smile, you're on candid camera_ front that the Echolls household has been pushing all its existence. And, just for a second there, he thought he was free from that. That he was goddamn going to smile when he felt like. There's no  _free at last_ plaque, though, there's just him, and some quote about freedom from  _Easy Rider_ which he makes her watch, and she watches because he makes her watch it, and she does girlfriend things like that. It's as if she's just as jumped up on the meds as Duncan was, where everything is just fine, and peachy keen, and pass the salt, please.

There's this brief moment where he thinks something like  _god, you and DK are perfect for each other_. And hopes she's okay with not-perfect. And then hopes fiercely she doesn't realize it either way, because he doesn't want to know if she's not.

 

 

**.**

 

 

 

There are moments when her normal pauses, occasionally. When he switches on the television and it’s Trina on every two-bit news channel, demanding justice for their innocent, wronged father. Telling everyone who gives her the airspace about the gold-digging slut Veronica Mars, who has her little brother wrapped around her finger, and would probably get him to impregnate her just to get at the Echolls’ fortune, which she’s trying to make sure passes to him as soon as possible, what with putting his legal guardian in jail and all. About how daddy Mars lost the seat of the Sheriff because of his lousy investigation, and then decided to make a story involving the most newsworthy man in Neptune to get his fifteen minutes of fame.

Veronica doesn’t say anything; she’s curled around his side, head on his shoulder, and he’s half slumped so she can reach. She absently rubs her hand on her stomach, above her shirt, where he knows the mark is, “you’re certainly gifted in the genetic department, huh. Flawless skin and everything. She’s practically glowing on screen, and," she leans in theatrically closer to whisper, "I really don’t think it’s just the make-up.”

“Yeah,” he manages, through gritted teeth, “gifted.”

He calls up Trina when she leaves, “speaking of gold-digging whores.”

“Little brother,” a pretence of delight, “your presence on the airwaves,  _defending daddy on murder charges_ , is sorely being missed. I can get you just about any Network right now, name your price.”

He cuts to the chase, “if you say another word against Veronica, I’m going to release the sex tapes to the media. You think your forty-removed-from Hollywood reputation is going to survive the pool boy? It'd be a last hurrah for the good old, pornographic, illegal recording system. A befitting farewell etcetera.”

He doesn’t have the tapes, he doesn’t even know if there are tapes, but what he does have is a keen observation of the human condition. And he knows what lovesick morons look like, when they’re looking at the unattainable.  _La douleur exquise_. He had French till the eighth grade. He still can’t spell it, though.

There’s silence on the other line, then Trina laughs, loud, grating, “you  _actually_  believe her, don’t you. God, what is it, does she have a magical vagina or something?”

And he realizes she actually doesn’t. She  _actually_  doesn't believe Veronica. He hadn't even realized it was possible to not believe Veronica. And for a moment he wants to not. Aaron is an abusive, whoring bastard, but Veronica’s income-source is proof enough that he’s not even close to being the only one, he’s almost  _normal_  in Neptune. Logan has no real proof, except Veronica’s words.

Maybe Aaron didn’t sleep with Lilly, and Lilly didn’t sleep with him, Lilly would never sleep with his father, because Lilly  _loved_  him, and Aaron would never have killed Lilly because goddammit, Aaron’s his  _father_. Veronica was lying. She’s thought enough times he was, maybe it’s all cover-up, because she was wrong, and she failed, and she betrayed them all. Again.

“I’m not kidding,” he says, flatly, a dull ache settling somewhere in his chest, because he can’t. As much as she hadn’t believed in him, he trusts her anyway. For some fucking reason, he can’t help it. And when he thinks of her that night; the large bruise discoloring the left side of her face, the quiet fear in her eyes that she’d tried so hard to hide, he wants to shove his fist through something, never let anything hurt her ever, ever again, “please give me a chance to prove how much I’m not kidding. I dare you.”

Trina laughs again, but it’s more subdued, “whatever. You be the fool on the hill, see if I care. Golden rule of showbiz: no publicity is bad publicity. Do your worst, little brother.”

But the next time she’s on air, and someone brings Veronica up, she just shakes her head and mentions what a nice little girl she used to be, one of her little brother’s closest friends. Maybe she’s just confused… disturbed by her friend’s death. It’s all very sad.

Veronica mock-gasps, but doesn’t stop playing with the sleeves of his shirt, like she’s been doing all evening, her eyes still on her hands twisting the material, “I’ve come up in the world! From a mercenary bitch trying to get an 09er baby in me, to a pitiful case for the white-coats. Promise me you’ll visit me in the asylum, darling. Oh, promise me this is  _real_. That we'll  _survive_ this.”

He stills her hands and holds it in one of his. He considers telling her that she’s using the wrong emotion from her standard arsenal. But these days, she’s all quip after hair flip after teenage hand-holding after dramatic stage-whispers. It’s as if she’s so fixated on normal, she’s almost forgotten how to do real.

“What did you do?” she asks, later, she’s sitting on the counter, swinging her feet, and he’s the one trying to cook this time, and it’d almost be domestic if only he knew what the hell he’s doing, and she was going to stay longer than the next half hour.

“Nothing,” he says.

She leans over to kiss him, raising her head up sweetly, and he knows she does it to remind him that she doesn’t think he’s his father or his mother or Trina. Which doesn’t make them- this- okay, all it makes her is blind. Her denial so thick, it’s starting to clog up the air around them, and he can’t breathe, sometimes.

That he kisses her back anyway probably makes him a far more legitimate case for the white-coats.

 

 

 

**.**

 

 

 

It's not as if he spends much time thinking about it, but he knows things were easier the first time round.

Easier when it was just bathroom make-outs, or on his couch, or by his car. When it was still tentative and exploratory, and there was so much open ground, so much hope to move forward in, so many checkpoints to go through; getting caught, the fall-out, trying to appease DK, going public, holding hands in front of people, kissing her openly by the garish neon of the lockers, making out in his car after the bell for last period had rung, hanging at the mall, buying each other teddy bears with hearts that say  _i wuv you beary much_.

He realizes in retrospect, he didn't leave enough space for near death experiences and his dad going to jail for fucking and then killing his girlfriend, and nearly killing his other girlfriend, didn't leave space for Veronica thinking he raped her, that he killed Lilly, but, you know, que sera sera.

Now, they've moved beyond that, raced through all those flagpoints into normal, and there's nowhere more to go, except natural progression; a countdown to ground zero.

He will maybe get past the bases. They will maybe have sex. He will tell her he's in love with her. She will maybe stay long enough to be able to tell it's not because he wants to get past second base. Duncan will come back. She will do normal and Duncan will do normal, and he won't, he's inherited a lot of genetic traits from his parents, but terrible acting skills isn't one of them, and she will hate him for not. They will fall apart.

But they haven’t moved past second base, at least till now. He doesn't touch more than he has to. He imagines instead, leaning his head against the wall of the shower. Wonders if she'll let him if he tries. If she'll open up. Wonders what awkward question he'll have to ask to make her take off her jeans, so she wouldn't have to answer.

She's sitting on his bed when he comes out of the shower.

"Oh," she says, getting up "um, sorry."

There's something strange about her expression as she looks at him, and he can't quite place it. The ever-present panic flares in his chest again; he's done something wrong. Fuck.

"That's okay," he says, slowly, towelling his hair, the other wrapped around his waist, gives her time to leave. He throws it on the bed, careless, hair still dripping.

When he looks up next, she's still standing, staring at him, "I'll just... go wait outside, then."

"Yeah," he says, and it's so weirdly awkward, what is up with that.

Till he looks closer; her eyes are wide, pupils dilated, the fall of her chest uneven- fuck, she's  _aroused_. By him in a towel. Somehow, he missed  _that_. He must have managed it before sometime, he's sure, but never without even touching her.

He doesn't know what to say, he realizes. He knows what he  _wants_  to say, knows her wants to kneel between her thighs and watch her open up to him. But he can't. Because it's Veronica. If he calls her out on it, if he gets any closer, she'll bolt and he'll get a text message at night telling him she needs to whatever, and he understands, right?

"I'll be out in a minute," he forces out.

She nods, her fixed gaze slipping down to his chest, before she looks up to meet his eyes again, and he clenches his free hand into a fist, the other hand clutching the towel.

She leaves.

He pulls out a long-sleeved t-shirt and wills himself to calm the fuck down.

She's not there when he finally gets outside, there's a note instead, and the sinking feeling somewhere low in his stomach mixes with the anticipation and the arousal and the fear and he feels sea-sick. He reads about how she  _totally forgot_  she has some work to do for Wallace, reads about god,  _how stupid_  she is and how Wallace _is going to kill_ her, reads till the  _xoxo_ 's and drops it in the bin. 

He takes a bottle off the top shelf, and calls up Dick.

 

 

 

**.**

 

 

 

Duncan comes back. He doesn’t radiate disaster, he comes back normal. He comes back, and he sits at a table in the corner at the Java; not the one she serves, not that one, but the one next to the one she serves.

Duncan sits the hours away and looks at college applications, pen in hand, filling out reams of papers in blue ink. Veronica passes his table on the way to hers. Their eyes meet, they smile awkwardly, Logan tightens his grip on the coffee mug, and kisses her hard when she comes over.

"You don't have to do that," she tells him quietly, and then involuntarily glances over to the other end, where Duncan's sitting, still busy with the pages and ink, not looking at them, "I'm not going anywhere, Logan. I swear."

He cups her face in reply, and kisses her again, teeth and tongue. She's out of breath when he pulls back, and he's not. And he thinks he doesn't need the air, so maybe he can keep her against his mouth, and let her breathe through him, and never let her pull back.

When he looks past her after, DK's gone. She looks too, following his eyes, turns around to him, and, this time, she kisses him, "still here," she says, smiling. She believes herself.

“Maybe we should start looking at college applications,” she says in the evening, “It’s senior year after all, time’s a-wasting.”

DK's there the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. And the second time in fifteen minutes he pulls her in, eyes on the other end of the room, Veronica tells him seriously that her employer is going to fire her if she doesn't  _stop making out with the boyfriend, Veronica, lip service isn't the kind we pay for_. She isn't lying. She uses a funny accent in imitating her employer, before walking away. See, here's the thing to know about Veronica Mars: she has leaving down to an art form.

He shoves his hands in his pockets; he wants to go surfing. He misses the salt air. He orders another coffee, instead. Duncan leaves. He doesn't.

 

 

 

**.**

 

 

 

Keith gets discharged. She can't come over anymore, not as much, and she whispers over the phone these days. Her dad knows, he doesn't approve.

He's dirty, he embarrasses her with the things he says, and she laughs, a shaky sound against his ear, his mobile leaving an outline with his grip. He presses it harder.

He makes half-veiled propositions and things that move beyond, because they're together, and there's always the chance he's not just saying them. But he still leaves the room wide open for misinterpretation, if that's what she wants, if that's how she wants to read it. There's always a door she can leave through, he makes sure of it.

_Logan_ , she giggles softly, in the way she never really does anymore,  _stop_.

She gets normal, her father gets a book deal and press interviews, and he gets his car totaled, his windshield broken, and she almost gets hurt again, because she's fucking with  _him_ , because he thought he fucking loves her, and it was magically going to be okay. Like that's ever been enough before.

She almost gets hurt, and normal is in the rear-view mirror. He gets in fist-fights with the PCH-ers, his knuckles busted and lips bloodied for the effort.

She cleans him up in her house wordlessly, with a wet cloth that isn’t too cold. Just like she holds his hand in the limo when the town demands his head, just as she holds his hand after summer-school, and pretends she has no idea what Dick and Beaver are on about. She's not  _a_  good girlfriend, exactly, she is  _the_  good girlfriend, a category, not a person.

"I don't want you to," she tells him bluntly, the third time he shows up at her door, bruises under his eyes, "you need to stop, Logan. We've been there once. I don’t want this. I don’t want you to keep doing this."

There is no heat behind her words; she doesn't believe he'll stop. He doesn't.

"I think,' she says, once, after, the seventh time maybe, he doesn't count anymore, she's determinedly staring at the television in front of them, "you're  _trying_  to push me away."

He looks at her not looking at him, her hand clutching the side-rest on the furthest end of the couch from him, and he can feel the slow, ugly smirk spread across his face, but it doesn't matter, she's not looking, she's never looking, "I don't think my hands stretch that far, to be honest."

"I could touch you if they did," he adds, randomly.

She doesn't answer. It wasn't a question anyway.

 

 

 

**.**

 

 

 

"I'm sorry," he says, maybe the same time, maybe some other time, "I'm sorry, I fucking  _love you_ , okay, Veronica. I'm in love with you. Fuck. So much, I can’t breathe sometimes. I  _love_  you, you bitch."

"Are you drunk?" she asks, quietly. She's always quiet over the phone, he's her dirty, little secret. Put it in the pantry with your cupcakes. He remembers he used to think it was hot. Now it just makes his chest feel hollow.

He laughs too loudly, lightheaded, "don't leave the PI business just yet, Mars, you're almost becoming worth something in the amateur sleuthing." So, he's drunk, doesn't mean he isn't in love with her.

"Call me when you're sober, Logan" she says, and he can hear soft music in the background. He imagines her lying on her bed, her hair spread against her pillow, wearing her stupid, ugly, cow-print pajamas, maybe she's on the waterbed instead, maybe Keith's making her dinner, maybe she’s humming along to the song, and he feels his heart beat so fast, he almost throws up. It's probably the alcohol. It's almost definitely the alcohol. His life is not a metaphor.

She hangs up on him. He walks over to the pool-house, and picks out another bottle. When he inserts the key into the cabinet, fingers clumsy, it doesn't break.

 

 

 

**.**

 

 

 

He doesn't know how he gets there even after, after the broken glass and the drunk dialing and the bruises; her almost naked under his sheets. Maybe he wanted to talk about something. Maybe she looked up statistics of teenage girls in the United States having sex with their boyfriends, and the number was enough to make her think getting to third base is normal.

He comes embarrassingly early, even with just her hand, like he can't remember having done in a while. But he's built it up in his head so much already that he can't slow down. Can't get himself to relax, no matter how much he tries to imagine Casey's grandmother naked.

She's lying on his bed, sweat glistening on her half-bare skin, tension still palpably thrumming through her body. She looks even tinier like this, and sometimes he forgets, because she's always in his head, and she's... more somehow. But spread like this, she's so small, and he's so afraid of breaking her when he pushes his hand inside her jeans, and slides two fingers in.

She’s tight. Wet, but still so fucking tight. She doesn't say anything, but he can tell she's uncomfortable.

"Hey," he says, softly, "you need to tell me what feels good, okay?"

She nods, but she's concentrating too hard on it, frown lines appearing on her forehead as she tentatively moves her hips.

"Duncan's fingers aren't as long as yours," she states, finally, thoughtlessly. And well, that's that.

"Shit," she says, eyes wide, "god, I'm so sorry, Logan, I didn't mean--"

"Yeah," he can feel his mouth automatically twisting up, he pulls his fingers out and licks them obscenely, because it makes her flush in embarrassment, "good old widdle Donut. Always such a hit with the ladies. Him and his not-so-long fingers."

She doesn't say anything to that. She's trying to judge their comparative high-grounds, he knows. Trying to figure out if his jackass remark cancels out her slip, and if she can scream at him, or she should be conciliatory.

He falls back on the bed, allows her to figure it out, hands coming to rest on his stomach, fingers clasped.

As much as he tried not to, he hasn't been able to stop himself wondering how far she's gone with Duncan. Objectively, they've had sex, of course, or some fucked up, drugged up version of it. But she doesn't remember that. It doesn't count. Now he knows. Apparently even sweet, innocent Princess Ronnie had allowed DK to get his hands under those virginal, white panties. And he can't even get the harder, butcher Veronica Mars off. Their feelings and their nature, he remembers her saying, once. Maybe he shouldn’t be stone-cold sober for this.

"I'm sorry," she says again, her voice cutting across his thoughts, "I really shouldn't have said that. But it's not like you haven't slept with half the girls at school, and don't know you have a reputation of being... good, in bed. I can't imagine this was any sort of blow to your manhood."

So, she's settled on defensive, then. Resetting to default. He should have guessed.

For a moment he wonders how she'll react if he tells her that he's in love with her. Again. That this matters because he's fucking _in love with her_. Probably just kiss him to shut him up. Again. Maybe that'll be the tipping point, and she'll just sleep with him to shut him up this time.

"Well, if we're comparing  _reputations_ , you're falling rather disappointingly short of yours, Veronica. If memory serves, shouldn't you be 'begging for it' by now?" he's resetting to default too.

There's silence for a moment, and he's so sorry, he's just so goddamned sorry. She gets up, sheet wrapped tightly around herself, even though she's still half-clothed, face drained of color.

"Goodbye, Logan." It doesn't sound as dramatic as he thinks it would on paper. There aren't any particular inflections in her voice. She doesn't sound outraged, or sad, or disappointed, or anything, really. That's the gut-punch.

They haven't broken up, yet, but he knows this; in the next few times he sees her, they'll break up, because of something else. Not this. Something else. And it'll mostly be his fault for messing up because he thought he should. Because then she'll have left because he messed up, not because she just doesn't care.

And the time after, she'll be in Duncan's arms. And he'll be the one sitting in the corner table across, except he won't pretend he isn't looking. But at least this way, he knows.

 

 

 

**.**

 

 

 

He runs into her on the beach, surfboard in hand. She's walking Backup. She throws a ball, and claps when her dog chases after it. He thinks maybe he could have done normal. He thinks maybe he should have tried.

Her smile slides off when she looks up and sees him. They're still together. He can kiss her. At least right now. So he does.

"Hey," she says, looking out to the ocean, avoiding his eyes.

"Hi," he kisses her again. She laughs, a little, when she pulls back.

"I miss you," he says, not missed, it's a continuing feeling, he's missing her right now. He thinks he hasn’t stopped in months.

She doesn't say anything to that, still staring out. It's starting to get dark. Backup comes back with the ball, she throws it again, automatically.

Duncan's on the other side, he notices suddenly, and then watches her notice. He sees them, and raises his arm in a half-wave, like he's forgotten what time they're in, like they're in a time when this isn't messy and fucked up, before abruptly letting it drop to his side, turning back to his other friends.

And then he's missing DK too. So fucking much. He needs to be there, with him. Needs to be here, with her. He would give either of them up for the other, but he’s going to lose both. Because life’s a bitch that way. Maybe it's the need thing fucking him over. Veronica doesn't need anything, and she functions.

He picks up the board, and she pulls at her shirt self-consciously, "you shouldn't surf at this time."

He stares down at her, "it could be dangerous," she explains, shoving her hands in her jeans pockets, biting her lip like she thinks she’s being stupid, "you could get hurt. It's getting dark. It's kind of... hard to judge the waves. I mean, I don't surf or anything, but--"

He can almost feel his chest cave on itself, he loves her so much.

"Do you ever get tired?"

She looks up at him then, and he can tell she's exhausted, "of what?"

"Do you," he repeats, slowly, deliberately, "ever get tired, Veronica?"

She's silent again, and he can hear it, it's loud, her silence is always the loudest, it gets under his skin and stays there, "yes."

He nods, "okay.” And then, blankly, dramatically, “things fall apart.”

“Yeats,” she says automatically, then stops, uncertain, "or Achebe."

“Yeats,” he confirms, “I passed English. A-. B in physics.”

She smiles at him, genuine, beautiful even in the half-light, as she raises a hand to his cheek, brushing her knuckles against his jaw, making everything inside him flare with a bright, aching tenderness, before letting it fall back to her side, “I knew you would. If you wanted to, I knew you would.” Somehow she thinks he could have killed Lilly, and she also thinks he can pass English if he wants to.  _Believes_  he can pass English if he wants to. As much as he tries to fix her into patterns, she slips away, and he starts again.

_I was hoping it would be you too_ , he thinks, maybe should say, but he can't bring himself to. He's not drunk enough for honesty. It wouldn't make any difference now, anyway.

"I have to go," she says, finally, she has leaving down to an art form, he knows, "dad’s probably waiting to palm off dish duty. I'll call you, okay?"

He nods again, "yeah."

He sits on the sand after she leaves, hands around his knees. He can feel the chill set in. He's going to go home, and call Dick, and when he comes back to the empty house, his fingers will taste of gasoline. But at least this way, he knows.

When he finally does get back, it's nearly morning. She's left a text, just four words: _I miss you too_. His clothes still smell of smoke.

He should probably delete it, but he won't. He'll keep it till it stops meaning something, and then maybe he'll let go. Or maybe he'll keep it, till it stops meaning something, and this time the water will be further down, the wind colder than he remembers from that night, the edge closer, but he won't. He still won't let go.

 

 

**.**

 

 

**[fin]**  



End file.
